


First you get hurt, then you feel sorry

by hou_dini



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-10
Updated: 2017-02-10
Packaged: 2018-07-22 17:05:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7447087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hou_dini/pseuds/hou_dini
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>First they were best friends, then they were lovers. First it was perfect, then it grew cold. First they were end-game, then they were foes. This is the story of how Xabi Alonso rewrote the happy ending of Steven Gerrard and Steve Finnan. </p>
<p>Prequel to <b>Deadlines and Commitments</b>, but you don't necessarily have to read D&C in order to read this one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. First

**Author's Note:**

> So... Here we are again. Apparently, after over two years and 200k words, I am not yet done with these characters.
> 
> I feel like this asks for an explanation. First of all, this is technically prequel to Deadlines and Commitments, which is finished, but I do not think you absolutely _need_ to have read D &C in order to understand this one. I've written it (hopefully with success) in a manner that it stands by itself. However, I do think it'll have a grander sense in the great scheme of things (?) if you do know D&C.
> 
> This story isn't even knew. I started writing it even before I uploaded D&C to AO3 the first time. It's the backstory of Stevie, Finns and also Xabi. I started writing it because D&C was never meant to be about them, but rather about Finns, Daniel and Fernando - Stevie and Xabi were mere extras making cameos here and there. But then things got blown way out of proportion and S and X had several chapters dedicated to them and also Stevie's and Finns' friendship became possibly my favorite thing about the entire story, so. I lost interest in writing their backstory because there was enough story already. However, I recently decided I wanted to try writing again and started reading over the older stuff I've got to try and get some inspiration and found this, almost done. Then I remembered how much I loved writing these characters. <3 So I cleaned it up a little, tinkered with bits and pieces here and there, and decided to upload it and see what happens. I admit I don't have a finale yet, but it is at least 75 to 80% done, which is good enough, I guess.
> 
> Also, who am I kidding, I just love Finns. All the Finns in the world is not enough for me. <3333
> 
> SO. In case there's anybody out there still reading these stories, whether you know D&C or not, if you'd like me to continue this, please let me know. I'll only do it if anybody is interested, otherwise it'll probably be a waste of my time (I take ages writing and editing this stuff, no shit). So, feedback, please? If you do want to keep reading, that will make a lot of difference! :)
> 
> Please bear in mind that English is not my first language and that I do not have a beta-reader to tell me whether I'm butchering the language and/or if this story is just too dumb to be posted. I do apologize beforehand for both.

Stevie rolls around in bed, ready to wrap his arms around a warm body only to find an empty space instead. He's still half-asleep, but awake enough to grunt a complaint - the bed is not even _warm_ , which indicates _somebody_ hasn't been there in a while. 

Squinting against the light, Stevie forces his eyes open. Finns is standing next to the bed, typing manically on his cell phone. His hair is hopelessly tousled and wet; clearly he just got out of a shower, towel still wrapped around his waist and everything.

Stevie considers voicing out his displeasure for whole two seconds before letting go of the idea. It's way too early and he's way too drowsy to possibly start an argument. Besides, he's still reeling from the night before, which was quite spectacular. Those aren't nearly as frequent as they once were, and he's determined to let the effects last for as long as possible. 

Still, he thinks there should be a law about the formalities of morning-afters, even for established couples. For instance: he absolutely _hates_ it when Stephen gets up with the sun and sneaks out of bed to have lone showers. Perfectly good sex setting gone to waste, if you ask Stevie. Even a ten minutes shower can be shaped into something memorable under the right ministrations. Honestly, he cannot think of a better way to start a day than with an orgasm. Why would anybody pass on the opportunity is beyond him. The fact his own boyfriend seems to be one of those is just disgraceful. And also perhaps a bit offensive. It wasn't always like that, though. Stephen used to be a preacher in the church of morning sex in the good old days. Feels like such a lifetime ago...

Stevie watches as little droplets of water run down his boyfriend's torso. Once upon a time, he would not think twice before pressing his hands against Finns' bare skin and then following up the touch with his mouth. And, don't get him wrong, it's not that he doesn't want to do that right now; of course he does. It's just not the first thought to cross his mind, and Stevie thinks it should be. It would be, a few months before. It's Finns, in his bedroom, naked but for a towel. If that isn't sexy, Stevie doesn't know what is. Except... 

What first springs to mind is not the sexiness of the scene, or how attractive his boyfriend obviously is, or the million different things Stevie could probably do to him if they had an extra fifteen minutes; what first springs to mind is that Stephen has lost weight again, and Stevie did not notice it last night, desperate as he was to just get Stephen out of his clothes and in bed after almost a week without seeing him. His ribs were not that apparent the last time he stopped to look at him, actually _look_ at him, with no clothes on. Usually, nowadays, when he does get Stephen stripped, they're always in such a hurry to make stuff _happen_ that Stevie takes no time to appreciate the other man's body with his eyes rather than just with his hands and his mouth and other more sensitive parts of his own anatomy. He's so used to Stephen he simply forgets. 

But then, every once in a while, when Finns doesn't know he's looking and they're not talking or sleeping or rushing out of each other's arms because _somebody_ \- Finns - has somewhere else to be, it happens - Stevie stops and he _looks_ and it seems like every time he does, Finns has lost[ some more weight. He just seems... _smaller_. It just goes with his constantly tired complexion, although this morning he looks livelier than usual, well-rested and fresh for a change. Stevie likes to think that he's at least a little bit responsible for that.

Finns still hasn't noticed he's awake, eyes glued to the screen, mind traveling in internet speed to the office before he even gets there.

He says, "Hey," and Finns doesn't even bother looking away from the phone, just murmurs something unintelligible back in acknowledgment. Stevie - he doesn't appreciate being ignored, so he leans over and pulls on the towel, more to try and get Finns closer so he can pull him back to bed, but he doesn't feel sorry either when it simply falls to the floor, pooling around Finns' feet. Still, the other man doesn't move a muscle.

Stevie sighs.

In moments like this, no matter how hard he tries, Stevie cannot _unsee_ the obvious gap that seems to have opened between the two of them when he wasn't looking. It's like he woke up one day and _bam_. Finns has made work his number one priority while Stevie remains just a college student at heart who fiercely defends morning sex every day as anyone’s prime aspiration in life. It just seems like two very different places for people in a serious, steady relationship to be, although he doesn't really like to think about the implications of that very much.

Beaten but not yet defeated, Stevie shifts a little on the sheets, reaches out again, very smoothly, and touches Finns’ dick with one finger, then two, on the head, making little circles. He chuckles as Finns flinches, but doesn’t move away. More confident, he decides to wrap his hand around the other man's cock. Finns slaps his hand away and takes a step back. 

“Don’t touch my penis, please,” he says, still not looking away from the phone.

Stevie rolls onto his back and lets out a displeased grunt. “Penis? Jesus, is there any word more of a turn off than _penis_? I’m here trying to give you a hand job and you talk about _penises_?”

Finns frowns awkwardly, stealing a quick glance at him. “What the hell are you on about, Stevie?”

“About you and your _penis_.”

“It’s how it’s called, you know. You have one too.”

“I don’t have a _penis_. I have a _cock_. I like that word much better. _Cock_. It makes me want to put it in my mouth. Penis sounds like something I wouldn’t even want to look at.”

“Do you realize how you’re not making any sense at all?”

“I'm not the one not making sense. Why are you naked over there instead of naked and in bed with me?”

Finns looks down at his own waist, only now realizing that the towel is not there anymore. Then he looks up, takes a deep breath and puts the phone down. “I have to go.”

“Oh, come on,” Stevie protests half-heartedly. It's not like he weren't already expecting it. Still, his discontentment with the current state of affairs needs to be on record.

“It’s almost eight.”

“Still early.”

“Some of us have to work.” Finns picks up the towel from the floor and takes it back to the bathroom. When he re-emerges, he’s already in his trousers.

“I have to work too,” Stevie says.

“It doesn’t look like it when you oversleep every morning.”

“I choose to live a more laid back and happy life. You should try is sometime.”

“Well, good luck paying your bills too.”

Stevie gives him a pointed eye roll. “Penis, bills… What else are you going to mention? Piers Morgan?”

Finns picks up his shirt from the floor, where they left it the night before. “Why would I mention Piers Morgan?”

“It’s the magic word to give me a turn off.”

The other man smiles, the first one today. That's something already, he supposes. More often than not now, Finns leaves before seven with a crease already settled between his eyebrows. Stevie loves his smile. He has such a beautiful set of teeth, Stevie tells him, he should use them more often. But it only makes him sigh in that ‘You are such a child, Steven’ sort of way he has. It’s Stevie’s private ambition to make Finns smile as much as he can when they’re together. Luckily, he is still rather well successful in his task, even with the added obstacles. Although probably not for much longer, the rate things are going.

“Piers Morgan,” Finns says, enunciating every syllable slowly.

“I really hate you sometimes, Stephen.”

“No, you don’t.”

"I fucking do."

Finns throws his shirt back on the floor where it was. “This is awful. I’m gonna need to borrow one of yours. Do you have any ironed?”

“Yeah, in the closet.”

“Preferably not white so they won’t know I didn’t go home last night," he says as he goes through the pieces hanging.

"They should know you didn't go home last night. Having a good sex life is no reason to be ashamed." 

"Ah, blue." Finns just ignores him and puts the shirt on, turns to Stevie and starts doing the buttons. They’re practically the same size, which is very useful for when one of them decides to sleep at the other’s home. “How do I look?” Finns asks.

“You look hot in blue.”

“Yes, but do I look professional?"

"Professionally hot."

"It'll have to do," he shrugs, not at all convinced. If Finns wasn't so anal about being at work always on time, Stevie's sure he'd go home and change. "Have you seen my tie?”

Stevie starts patting the bed. He’s certain he saw that tie… “A-ha!” he exclaims, pulling the crumpled tie from behind the pillows and throwing it over to Finns. “I used it to tie your hands,” he adds with a wolfish little grin. It was a _very_ good night.

“That was my tie you used? Fuck, Steven. It’s ruined!”

“But it was for a good cause.”

“Jesus.” He throws it aside as well and goes back to the closet. “Do you have one I can borrow?”

“First drawer to your right.”

“Do you have anything that doesn’t look completely idiotic?”

“What’s wrong with my ties?”

Finns pulls one out and waves it in the air. “Bart Simpson? Really?”

“It’s fun!”

“If you’re 18 and an intern, maybe; not 28 and trying to get a promotion.”

“I think you might find a boring one in the back,” Stevie says around a weary sigh.

“Black. Good.”

Finns is an expert in doing tie knots. He does it so fast it’s hard to understand how. He’s the one who taught Stevie how to do it, but to this day, whenever possible, the Scouser prefers to ask him to do it for him. Finns' grandfather used to be a master tailor, he says. A big one up in Ireland, apparently. His family inherited the business, made it huge and became rich. Finns basically grew up tying knots on ties and learning how to model suits to perfection. “You really do look good in blue,” Stevie muses as the other man checks himself out in the mirror. “Makes me want to undress you all over again.”

“Let me walk away before you do, then.”

With a cheeky wink to his boyfriend, Finns walks out of the room, much to Stevie’s dissatisfaction. He had such great plans for this morning. Count it on Finns’ stupid job to always spoil the fun.

He finds the other man styling his hair in front of a mirror Stevie has on the living room wall. “You and your hair gel,” he says, shaking his head and leaning against the door frame. Finns always carries his hair gel with him. ‘For emergencies’, he says. No medicine or extra money or umbrellas or anything of that sort, but he does carry hair gel. Finns has a love affair with his hair. “If you ever had to choose between shaving your head and being with me forever or keeping your hair and never seeing me again, what would you choose?”

“Who would ever make me choose between those things?”

“I don’t know. God.”

“God doesn’t make you choose between hair and boyfriend, Stevie.”

“Alien invaders then. Whatever. Doesn’t matter who. What would you choose?”

Finns turns around to eye Stevie, very seriously, hair perfectly styled - the kind of organized mess carefully thought out to give the impression that he doesn’t even have to comb it for it to look gorgeous anyway. “Well, I can always find another boyfriend,” he muses.

“I knew it. You love your hair more than you love me.”

“My hair is perfect, Steven. You have your flaws.”

“Ouch.”

Finns smiles at him and Stevie can’t help but return it. 

“There’s something about naked men when they’re not about to have sex,” the Irishman comments as he eyes Stevie from head to toe in a completely non-sexual way, which is very frustrating.

“What?”

“It looks really stupid, doesn’t it?” Finns nods his head towards Stevie’s naked crotch. “A soft cock. It’s not pretty. I can appreciate it when it’s hard, but when it’s soft, it just looks… Stupid.”

“I can make it hard in a second, if that will please you.”

“It would but unfortunately I don’t have time. Where did I leave my shoes?”

“Check by the door.” Finns goes and returns with his shiny black shoes. Stevie watches as he sits down on the couch to put them on. “Wanna come with me to Mercy tonight?”

“Mercy?” He frowns. “Aren’t you a little old for that?”

“You’re never too old for Mercy. There’s this supposedly awesome party happening there tonight. We could go, dance a little, have a few drinks, watch some hot men grinding upon each other…” he suggests, with a smirk.

Finns seems to ponder for a second, but soon enough he is shaking his head. God forbid he ever allows his libido to take over. “I can’t. I have a contract to deliver by tomorrow. I should’ve started working on it tonight, but you begged and I came over. Now I’ll have to sort it all in less than six hours after I get home.”

Stevie pouts. “So boring.”

“I appreciate how supportive you are, boyfriend.”

“I want you to enjoy life, boyfriend.”

“I do too, but first I need to make sure I get that promotion.”

“I don’t think you’ll rest until you’ve become name partner at that firm.”

“That doesn’t sound bad at all.” Finns walks over to him and pulls Stevie into a loose hug. “Go and have fun yourself, ok?” he says, placing a kiss on the top of Stevie’s head.

“Yeah, whatever.”

Finns then places a longer kiss on Stevie’s lips. The Scouser tries to not return it as a way of punishing his neglectful lover, but his resolve doesn’t last long and soon enough he’s opening his mouth to allow Stephen to deepen the kiss. 

“Thank you for the amazing night,” the other man says once he pulls away. “My penis and I are very glad.”

“I feel used,” Stevie says. "But feel free to do it any time."

“Gotta run.”

“Remember to breathe, Stephen,” Stevie calls as he leaves the door in his by-now usual hurry.

College Finns was a lot of fun. College Finns simply knew no bounds. He was all in for adventure and experimenting and enjoying his youth away from a catholic boarding school. College Finns was free spirited and curious and imaginative, which mostly worked for the good, only eventually bordering on the suicidal (however exciting). Still, _vini, vidi, vici_ and all that crap. Graduated Finns, however... That's a different story.

As soon as university was over, Stephen stepped out of his crazy days as though it was a dirty pair of jeans, put on his serious adult man suit and that was that. Done and dusted; time to move on. 

It's not that Finns isn't _fun_ anymore; he is. He just doesn't save a lot of time on his planner for frivolous things such as _social life_ or _sex_ or _sleeping_. Stephen has a plan, and being a respected and successful lawyer before the age of 30 is kind of a huge part of it. 

The fact he comes from wealth means shit to Stephen. Actually, that's not true - it means _a lot_. It means he wants to continue to have a fat bank account and means to entertain his expensive tastes; he'd just rather do it with his own money, not his parents'. Since he completely abdicated from taking part on the family's business, Finns doesn't think it's fair that he continues to live off of it. And, you know, it makes sense. Very honorable and everything. Stevie just happens to not share that type of philosophy. He doesn't give a rat's ass about taking his family's money.

Unlike Finns', Stevie's parents are terrible at being parents. They're shit. They've been shit Stevie's whole life. Getting robbed by their neglected son is the least they deserve for all the crap Stevie had to put up with growing up. Call it compensation if you like. He doesn't care. And it's not like his family cares either; they much prefer having an adult son to whom their only responsibility is signing a couple of blank checks every month than a young one they have to pretend to care for every now and again on the risk of going to jail for child abandonment.

Stevie's way past being angry or frustrated or rebellious and trying to get their attention. That was exhausting and had very little effect. Now, all he wants is their money. It's so much easier not having personal expectations about his parents. Money they're good with, they have buckets of it; it's taking care of another human being they suck at. Still, having lousy and rich parents is a lot better than having lousy and poor ones. That comprehension did not come easily, but it did change his life for the better. All in all, Stevie thinks he turned out very well, and if he has anything to be thankful for, it's his parents' wealth. It paid for a good education and good, decent people who took care of him and made sure he didn't grow up to be a total lunatic or a junkie or a Kardashian or whatever.

That money is also why Stevie, age 26, gets to turn down job offers from firms such as Finns' to work for a non-profit that does good things for people in need whilst paying awfully low wages to its employees. But the flexible work hours - that's pure gold.

Don't get him wrong, Stevie's not one of those people who think corporate lawyers are the devil's workers, selling their souls for blood-stained money. It's all honest work. One day he might even want to do something like that, make a career, find some stability, perhaps start depending on his own money ( _perhaps..._ ). But that day is not today.

Amongst many other things, that means Stevie and Finns aren't exactly seeing eye to eye on, well, anything. Stevie hates to put things under that kind of perspective, but it is what it is and at some point they'll have to address the elephant in the room.

Steven and Stephen have been attached at the hip almost since they met. It was instant chemistry, in a friendly manner. Hanging out with other people stopped making sense when it was simply better to hang out together. Nobody ever really _got_ Stevie quite the way Finns does. He was the best friend and the family Stevie never had. And that is all still true; Finns is his best friend, the only person Stevie can truly count on, and they still have a lot of fun together. Only those moments are becoming scarcer by the day. 

Lately, they're always so hungry for a bit of touching and kissing that, whenever they do get to see each other - like last night -, they jump straight to bed, no foreplay whatsoever. And, ok, the sex is still pretty amazing. If Finns isn't too tired, they can take it to round two, sometimes even two and a half, before passing out. The only problem is Stevie hates having to choose between his best mate and his fuck mate; he doesn't get enough time to have both of them. That is some screwed up shit.

Things weren't always like this, mind you. Right after Stevie convinced Finns to move to Liverpool, after the _Three Months That Shall Not Be Mentioned_ (it was a mess and it was awful and they may or may not have done things they regret, but they agreed to never talk about it again and so those three months simply do not exist), everything was ace. Everybody loved their jobs, nobody was being brainwashed by brutal capitalism and they all respected the sanctity of weekends and weekday nights. They were _fine_. 

Until about a year ago, when Finns got possessed by some evil spirit upon the opportunity of a promotion.

 _'It'll only be a couple of months, Stevie. They'll have to pick someone to fill the position soon, I just need to make sure they'll notice me_ '. Those were Finns' words when he started working late every night and waking up way before his body was ready to start a new day. When Saturdays and then Sundays became mere extensions of Fridays and Mondays. When wine and bubble baths were replaced by unhealthy amounts of coffee and lame excuses.

That was a year ago. Nobody has been picked for the promotion yet. Stevie isn't even sure there still is a promotion at stake. Sometimes he thinks Finns has just lost it and his bosses are way too happy with this crazy version of their employee to be kind enough to let him know he's been running himself ragged for nothing. In Finns' maniac brain, the delay in announcing the name of the new junior partner or whatever shit they're offering translates into 'I'm not working hard enough to be worthy of that position' so he goes ahead and immediately starts thinking of all the ways he can _improve_. Stevie wouldn't use that word.

The longer the competition runs, the worse he gets, and the more convinced Stevie is that not having a stupid _life plan_ is much better than the alternative.

He's done everything he could to try and talk Finns out of this madness, and not only because his sex life is being penalized in the process. Stevie's way past the phase where that was his main concern; now he's genuinely worried for Finns' sake. He won't listen, obviously, because he's Stephen and when Stephen gets something in his head he's got zero chill. He just doesn't stop until he's won, whatever the hell that means to him. Finns hates admitting defeat. It's insane, really.

So Stevie does his part. He doesn't complain as much anymore because it's a waste of time - of _good_ time, time that they can spend doing much more beneficial things. All the last minute _'Can we reschedule'_ s and _'Something came up'_ s annoy the hell out of him, but it's Finns, so what is he gonna do? He does feel a little bit guilty. It is his fault, after all, that Finns works at that firm. He was the one who set up the interview.

Besides, Stevie needs his Finns. It's just how things are.

It still sucks that he'll go to yet another party all by himself, to dance with strangers and possibly get turned on only to go back home very alone and very frustrated. Life should not be that way when you have a boyfriend who's also your partner in crime. It just shouldn’t.


	2. You get excited

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaand we're back! Sorry about the delay in updating this, I was stuck with work for almost two months and had no time whatsoever for anything else. This short chapter is my way of apologizing to anyone interested in reading this story while I edit the next ones. :)
> 
> As always, I ask you to please forgive my crappy English and all the mistakes you will surely find. Please do leave me feedback if you stop by this story and thinks it's worth continuing! It really makes my day and it's the only reason why I still bother uploading stuff.

Mercy brings a strange wave of nostalgia to wash over Stevie.

On the one hand, it has this comforting sort of familiarity about it. He spent most of his teenage years sneaking inside, even though he wasn't old enough. On the first few years of university, whenever he was absolutely _forced_ to go home for holidays or summer break, that's where he'd end up spending most of his nights. Well, that or Hank's pub. Stevie would go as far as to say that Mercy played the most important part in shaping his character. That is basically where he learned everything about being a gay young man in Liverpool. All his first time experiences, all his early days’ friends, all his best, craziest party nights - Mercy.

It's almost like it isn't a mere night club at all, but rather some kind of wise oracle he'd consult with whenever he had doubts. A Grandmother Willow for gay men.

But then there is also the part where Mercy reminds him oh so well of how terribly lonely he was growing up. His parents were never there for him, his school sucked big time, he never really had any friends his own age. Everyone he actually cared about or enjoyed hanging out with were older guys he'd randomly met at Mercy. And it's not like they were bad influences or anything like that; it's just that older people, sometimes, do not have the patience required to deal with 15 or 16 year-olds and their dramas. 

It wasn't exactly a walk on the park, to put it simply.

After university started everything became understandably easier. He made new friends, who were actually his age, he got to spend long periods of time away from all his family drama (which was mostly only on his part, since his parents gave little to no shit at all to how their son felt at any given moment) and - well, there was Finns too. Finns was a game-changer in Stevie's life, for all the big important reasons.

Stevie introduced Finns to Mercy on the early stages of their friendship, when Finns used to catch a train halfway through summer break to keep him company 'till it was time to go back to Cambridge. It's not where they first started making out or anything, but Stevie does remember that it was in one of their party nights there that he first entertained the possibility, even if only in his head. Finns was obviously the one to make the first move. Stevie wouldn't dare ruining his relationship with his only friend for a few hot snogging sessions. It could've gone wrong in so many ways he feels anxious just remembering when it all started. Luckily, it worked out for the best and, so many years later, here they are.

Well, here he is.

Finns didn't want to come, so Stevie's back at Mercy on his own again, which is something he hadn't done in quite a while. Being a committed man alone at a night club is not exactly his idea of a _good time_. Seeing all those men dancing and rocking against one another just reminds him how little he's been able to that with his own boyfriend lately. The thought immediately causes Stevie's mood to sour, so he makes the decision to not think about Stephen and his stupid life choices tonight. He's giving himself some deserved time off from that drama. If Finns did not want to come - well, too bad. It's his loss. Steven is determined to have a good time, with or without him.

He sees a few people he knows on the way in, some of which are really old pals he hasn't bothered to keep in touch, so he only stops for quick _'heys'_ and _'how-are-yous'_ and _'you-look-greats'_ before moving on. The place is packed, as always. Stevie is pretty certain some of the boys on the dance floor are not even close to 21, and that brings a smile to his face. It shouldn't, because this place can get rough and some of the guys here are scary even for him. But hey - you gotta do what you gotta do. He was one of those kids once.

He finds his way through the pack of dancing, sweaty bodies to reach the bar, where Pepe waves a hand at him as soon as they make eye contact. Another one of his old acquaintances and one Stevie is very fond of. Pepe spent so much time fetching booze for Stevie at the bar that he ended up taking a liking to the art of drink-making. He's won awards all over the country, but loves nothing more than to serve flamboyant looking drinks to the queens at Mercy. For sure the best banana daiquiri Stevie's ever had in his life. 

He waits patiently for his carefully executed drink making small-talk with Pepe as he throws the cocktail shaker to one side and the other. "Show off," he says. Pepe just shrugs because, well, that's exactly what he is doing; showing off to the horny guys lining up around the bar for a drink. Those moves have earned him more than a few blow jobs. Some dudes have serious crushes on braggy barmen.

When he finally moves to pick up the drink from the bar, somebody beats him to it, snatching it away from Stevie's fingers.

“Hey!” he roars at the guy. “That was mine!”

“I asked for one too. How do you know it wasn’t mine?” the guy answers, simply, taking a sip from _his_ glass.

“Because,” Stevie says. “I know it was mine.”

“That’s a very good point, indeed.”

“Whatever, mate.” Annoyed but determined not to ruin his night so early on, Stevie turns back to the Pepe, who has queens yelling his name all around. “Pepe, another one, please,” he says, and hopes he was heard this time.

He notices as someone touches his shoulder and turns around to find the drink stealer.

“I’m sorry I took your drink,” he offers, not seeming very apologetic at all.

Stevie considers him for a moment, then shrugs. “It could’ve been yours, I suppose.”

“No,” he shakes his head. “I didn’t ask for one. I was just desperate for a drink and I saw yours and it looked very enticing, so… I’m sorry.”

Stevie narrows his eyes a little, but finds that this guy's honesty is kind of ok, so he ends up smiling instead. “You little thief.”

“I’m apologizing, though.”

“And that makes it better then, does it?”

“At least you got a fair reason to talk to me.”

 _Oh_ , Stevie thinks, as the man offers him a wolfish grin. _Now_ he sees what happened. He must be getting old if it took him a confession to realize someone was trying to flirt with him. Well, it was actually a very smart move; he’ll give the guy that. 

“And you’re cocky too.”

“And yet you’re still talking to me.”

“I’m starting to think I was set up by you.”

“Maybe.” The man offers his hand for Stevie to shake. “I’m Xabi, by the way.”


	3. Cheated and lied

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to just upload stuff as soon as I have it done because it's easier. That's not my usual style (I like my chapters to sort of make sense story-wise), but hey. Whatever works, right?
> 
> As always, I ask you to remember that this story hasn't been beta'ed and that my English is not as good as I'd like it to be. I'm sorry about all the mistakes. :( And feedback is love! <3 Don't shy away from sharing your thoughts with me, I REALLY appreciate your comments. <3

_Xabier Alonso_.

Golden letters on a creamy beige piece of paper. Very neat, very professional. Except for the smudgy numbers on the bottom, quickly scribbled after a couple of mean tequila shots. A private cell phone number. _Call me, call me_ , it says. Stevie can almost hear it, murmuring to him in a low, slightly Spanish-accented voice.

There's really no reason why getting rid of this card should be a difficult task, but Stevie's been staring at it, rubbing the textured letters with his thumb, considering the information contained on it (name, occupation, company, work number, e-mail, added private cell number). It's not that he's trying to decide what to do with it; he knows what he _has_ to do, which is to rip it off into irreparably tiny pieces and throw it out. He just... Can't.

He thinks it might be the guilt. He wants it to be the guilt, because anything else speaks of loads of bigger issues, and the issue in question is quite monumental to begin with. This tiny little business card is the single evidence of Stevie's wrongdoing. The only thing connecting him to Xabier Alonso, who didn't get his phone number or even a full name. If he gets rid of the card, he gets rid of the last bit attaching him to that man. They'll likely never see each other again. That will be it. Finns will never accidentally find this card and ask 'Who's Xabier Alonso?', prompting Stevie to look irrevocably culpable in the face of a person who can smell his bullshit from miles away. Finns won't ever have to know. It will be like it never happened.

Except... _Except_... Well, it keeps on happening, in his head. Over and over and over. Stevie tried telling himself that he was drunk and upset and in search of comfort, but the truth is the amount of details he can recall from the night before mean he wasn't really that drunk. Tipsy at most. And barely so. He never thought he'd live to see the day his Liverpudlian level of alcohol tolerance would play against him, but there you go.

There was a lot of talking. And a lot of flirting. And a lot of laughing. And it was all very harmless, very friendly, until Xabi kissed him. Or he kissed Xabi. That part is probably the only fuzzy one; probably because they both did it. Xabi looked at him in a certain way, and Stevie leaned forward, and then... They kissed. And they kissed some more. Until they were breathless and their lips were red and swollen and their hands were roaming all over inappropriate territory. 

In his defense, there was no sex (like that makes anything better; he doubts it would to Stephen). Not because he didn't want to. His body reacted in a very obvious manner to all that snogging. A last shred of conscience stopped him at the last minute before he said yes to Xabi's invitation to go back to his place, and so Stevie played the 'work really early next morning' card to get away from temptation. Xabi probably knew he was lying, but gifted him with a name and a phone number anyway. ' _Call me when you're free_ ', he said. Which really meant _'Call me when you're done feeling guilty about whatever'_. 

It was some _serious_ snogging. It could've easily been more. It was, in Stevie's head. And now he feels awful. Only apparently not enough to get rid of the damn card.

His phone rings, startling him out of his thoughts.

Of course it's Finns.

 _Shit_.

He takes a deep breath and tries not to sound like he's in absolute pain when he says, "Hey."

He immediately knows he's failed when Stephen snorts and replies with, "That doesn't sound very enthusiastic." 

"Excuse me?"

"I was hoping you would've had a better night than me. Someone in this relationship should be happy for the sake of both of us."

Stevie bites on his lower lip and shuts his eyes for a second to absorb the impact of the metaphorical punch to his gut. "Oh," is all he manages to say.

"That sounds even worse."

"You had a bad night?" he asks instead of providing enlightenment. There's nothing he can say that won't be utter crap. That's the problem with lying; once you start, you have to come up with dozens of smaller lies to cover up the first one. It never ends.

"What do you think?" Finns asks around a very weary sigh. Stevie's mind clears enough for him to notice how incredibly tired and hoarse Stephen sounds.

"Did you get any sleep at all?" 

"Barely. Maybe. I honestly don't know. I can't remember what happened between three am and five am, so maybe I was asleep? Hopefully."

"Finns..." Stevie says, admonishing. It makes him feel even worse that he was out sucking face with strangers while Finns was suffering over work, even though that fact would normally only cause him to be annoyed. However, his concern for Finns' well-being suddenly becomes more prominent than his guilt, which is... Well, a bit of a welcome change, if he's completely honest.

"It's fine. I had coffee. Lots of it. So much my pee is a little black. I might have given my soul a coffee cancer."

"Jesus, Finns. Shut up."

"It's a real thing. I looked it up."

Stevie shakes his head. "You're gonna get yourself killed one of these days and you're joking about it."

"I'm Irish, we don't get taken down so easily," Finns replies, and Stevie can almost hear the smile on his voice. It's hard not to smile back.

"Did you finish your work at least?"

"Allegedly, yes. I have a meeting in twenty minutes to find out if it's good enough or if I fucked it all up."

"It's good enough."

"Did you hear the part where I said I blacked out for two hours? I don't know if I was sleepwalking or possessed or screwing up my work."

"I'm sure it was just your regular collapsing-out-of-sheer-exhaustion time, so you don't have to worry about your work, only about not dying."

"Yeah... I need coffee, though."

"Finns." Honestly, sometimes it's like he's talking to a dog. Or worse, a child. A dog at least would do as he says if he offered a cookie. Finns' attitude reminds Stevie an awful lot of himself circa the age of seven, when he started peeing on his bed on purpose just to annoy his mother after she passed out on too much eggnog and sleeping pills on Christmas Eve and he had to eat dinner alone.

"Some duct tape would be good also."

"What?"

"To keep my eyes open throughout the meeting."

"Honestly, I... Don't know what to say to you anymore. Just consider yourself scolded."

Finns sighs again, somehow sounding even more tired now. Stevie imagines him slumping back against his nice, big office chair, shutting his eyes and letting the tension leave him for just a second. He doesn't know whether he wants to yell at Finns or simply cuddle him.

"Tell me about your night."

Stevie sits up straight, his eyes quickly falling on the card on his desk and moving away just as fast. "Ah..." he starts. "It was... All right."

"That sounds terrible."

"Oh, you know..."

"I don't, actually."

_I met a guy at the club, we had a very good time, the night was great, I didn't think about you once. Oh, yeah. By the way, I furiously made out with him and wanted so bad to fuck his brains out._

"It was normal."

"Normal? What is normal?"

"Queens all over the place, too much noise, too much booze... Just... regular old Mercy."

If Stevie thought he felt bad before, it really doesn't compare to _right now_. He hates lying to Finns. And he's also terrible at it too, and the fact Stephen is a bloody alien at telling when he's hiding something doesn't help. This conversation is painful enough through the phone; face to face it would be something else entirely, much more devastating.

"Not even a little bit fun?" Finns sounds so hopeful that Stevie actually had a good time that he wants to scream. 

"A little bit," he offers, all the while making a mental note to beat himself up some more later.

"It's better than nothing, I suppose."

"Do you have to work tonight?" Stevie adds quickly, before Finns can start begging for more details and he ends up tripping over his own lies.

"Don't think so."

"Can I come over to yours?"

"Sure. Eight?"

"Eight sounds good."

"Ok. Good. Wish me luck, then."

"You don't need luck, Finns. You're good at your job. You're insane, and it's killing you, but you're good."

Finns chuckles. "Well, thanks. But I mean, wish me luck to stay awake."

"Oh. Good luck, then."

"I have to get back to work now. Talk to you later."

Before he can even say anything else, Finns hangs up. Stevie scrubs a hand through his face, letting out a heavy gust of air. His eyes go back to the nice golden letters on the card.

There really is no decision to be made here.

Stevie rips the card in tiny little pieces, leans over to throw it in the garbage bin and realizes that might not be enough. So he opens the window, lets the pieces fall from the sixth floor and deliberately ignores the way his chest aches just a tiny bit as the wind takes it all away and the paper disappears from sight.

That's it, then. Goodbye, Xabi.


	4. Never get mad

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please forgive me for any mistakes you might find! I have to remind you that this story has not been beta'ed and that English is not my first language. :(
> 
> Also, your feedback means the world to me. <3 If there's anyone still interested in reading this, please let me know!
> 
> Sorry for the delay with the update. :(

When Stevie moved back to Liverpool after college (and breaking Finns' heart for not joining him in London), he found a flat that was big enough to be comfortable but not so big that it would feel too empty all by himself there. All the happiest days of his life thus far had been spent crammed in a tiny student apartment with Finns, whilst certainly some of the worst were all connected to the 500-rooms-and-indoor-pool frilly mansion of his mother.

There is nothing fancy about his flat. It's an old building that hasn't seen renovations in at least 40 years, right in the heart of the city center, next door to Stevie's favorite pub (which was a requirement when he went flat hunting; back home and just out of a relationship, _of course_ he'd wind up spending more time at the pub). The elevator is a bit of an adventure, always threatening to leap into a free-fall (it has been slightly improved since he moved in, after an 80 year-old lady was sent to the hospital with palpitations for getting stuck in it for 20 minutes), but Stevie thinks it has _character_.

The decor was a bit of a mess, not to say nonexistent. For the first three months, Stevie didn't care about getting anything beyond the absolute necessary: a fridge so food wouldn't get rotten, a stove so he could cook in times of despair, a bed to sleep on and a TV to watch the Reds. That's it. Finns has sort of helped out improving the conditions a little, because he _cares_ about that stuff ( _It's your home, Steven, not a hostel, for God's sake_ ). And, well - he kind of sees the point in that. But back then he just couldn't be arsed. Stevie hated his life for the whole of three months that it took Finns to lose the stubbornness contest and move north. His apartment was just another item on a long list of things he did not give a flying fuck about.

When Finns finally arrived - out of nowhere, suitcase in tow -, Stevie had all these ideas about how wonderful everything was suddenly going to be. They'd make that flat a mirror of the one they used to share, only perhaps slightly less crappy, and without the need for separate bedrooms. Life would go back to its wonderful pre-adult normality and it would be _amazing_.

Except Finns had other plans, of course.

Frankly, Stevie was a bit hurt when his new-old boyfriend announced he was going flat-hunting - on the other side of the city as well, mind you. Finns argued that they should be allowed to have each their own space at least once in life before going back to sharing - especially because they _could_ afford. It's all part of the growing up rite, of finding your own individuality and understanding what you really are like as a singular person, apart from your relationships and all the people in your life. Finns' words, not his.

It took him a while to stop sulking and accept that Finns was right (as per usual). Finns' place is much nicer than his own and Stevie might even like it more than his flat (just because he can't be arsed to make his place look pretty, it doesn't mean he doesn't appreciate a nice one, especially if said home has been furbished by professionals and looks like the stuff out of a catalog), but it's still good to know that he can just go _home_ at some point. And anyway, it avoids lots of fights. Like right now, for instance. Stevie thinks he and Finns would've already murdered each other by now if they didn't live in separate flats. If he had to be around to witness Finns' crazy work pattern, there would be no boyfriend to lose at this point.

Which reminds him, even with Finns' tremendous efforts to ruin their relationship, he still managed to get ahead on the fight for the Worst Fuck-Up Of The Year. That takes some really screwed up sort of talent.

In spite of the initial hurt and their different tastes in interior design, Finns' flat always felt like home to Stevie. He walks in and out whenever he feels like, has had his own key since day one and doesn't usually bother letting Finns know beforehand whenever he wants to crash over there.

Except for tonight, that is. For the first time ever, Stevie feels like a complete stranger going to Finns' place, with a sort of self-consciousness he never had before. It's almost like he's not the same person he was two days ago. If he stops to think about it, at least in some ways, he really isn't; then he was a cranky, somewhat unhappy albeit faithful boyfriend, now he's just a cheater. Everything else pales in comparison to what he did. Whether Finns will spot the difference just by looking at him is what is scaring the hell out of Stevie right now.

He spent the entire day practicing his best nonchalant attitude and everyday-absolutely-normal face, but is yet to be convinced that he won't be giving anything away the second they meet. He's always been terrible at keeping secrets from Stephen. This just feels like too big a burden.

Stevie breathes deeply, in and out, in and out, as the elevator (smooth ride, very quiet, unlike the one at his building) goes up. This is it. Time of truth. If Stevie can make it past tonight, he's pretty confident he'll be safe. But the night ahead is dark and full of terrors. 

Coming in empty-handed felt weird, for whatever reason, but getting Finns a gift or something of the sort would be the same as writing 'I FUCKED UP' with neon pen on his forehead. Instead, he went for something in-between; nice, but still casual enough that it can pass as nothing but a thoughtful boyfriend's idea of a nice evening together: dinner.

Getting to Finns' favorite restaurant and back was a bit of a pain because it is completely out of Stevie's way, but he kept it in mind that this isn't just a _forgot our anniversary_ sort of incident he's dealing with here. So he reckons the effort will be worth it if the allure of his favorite Italian risotto diverges Finns' attention away from Stevie's ill-concealed guilt.

He takes a second to get his nerves in check before walking in. If he just aims for calm and unaffected, it should be fine, Stevie tells himself. It'll be _fine_.

The second he lays eyes on Finns, however, Stevie feels his determination ebbing away. He gets a cold shiver up his spine, his legs suddenly all wobbly. So much for staying positive.

"Hey," he says, moving straight to the kitchen counter and busying himself with the dinner bags. Turning his back to Finns, who's sitting on the couch, is a relief. "I brought dinner," he announces, trying to sound as natural as he can after what was possibly a very awkward entrance. "Thought we might eat something nice for a change."

As soon as he starts opening the take-away packages, the delicious smell of warm food fills his nostrils and calms him a bit. Stevie spent so much time freaking out today he forgot to eat; he's been functioning on a single cup of tea and some crackers all day. Apparently guilt is a very fulfilling sentiment, leaves no space for hunger.

"Do you want to eat now?" he asks, already moving around the kitchen to get the plates. It takes him a while to realize he's been talking to himself. No replies. "Finns?" 

When he finally lifts his eyes to focus on the other man, he finds Stephen sitting very still, elbows resting on his knees and his face buried in his hands.

Stevie's heart drops for a second as he quickly considers the chances of Finns having heard about his little escapade. Someone could've seen him. There were a few familiar faces at Mercy, but no one he thinks might be in touch with Finns. Or... Could it be...

_Crap._

"Stephen?" he tries again, rubbing his sweaty palms on the side of his jeans and taking tentative steps to approach his boyfriend. When he gets close enough, there's a sudden shudder, and then Finns lifts his head. And he is... 

"Are you... Crying?" Stevie asks, a mix of shock and concern on his face, eyebrows arched up to his hairline. It is a deeply disturbing scene that gets him completely taken aback. Whatever he was expecting, even in the worst case scenarios, _this_ was definitely not it. 

Finns is not a crier. Stevie's seen him go through break-ups, brawls, fits of rage, physical pain and emotional breakdowns without ever shedding a single tear. If it ever happened, it was never in front of other people. For a second there, the Scouser is totally speechless, unsure of what to do, but, after the initial bump wears off, he realizes that if this had anything to do with last night, Finns wouldn't be crying. He'd be dead serious, cold like an iceberg, looking scary and furious, not... Desperate.

That's exactly what he is, Stevie decides. Desperate.

"Finns..." he says, calmly, gathering enough confidence to sit down next to him and finally look him in the eye.

"I'm not crying," Stephen says, very matter-of-factly, wiping away the tears running down his cheeks with the back of his hands.

"Yeah? What is that water on your face, then?"

"My eyes are sweating."

Stevie shakes his head slowly, watching the other man closely. "It's amazing you can keep a straight face while saying that." He reaches out to wipe a wet patch on Finns' cheek with his thumb. "Are you drunk?"

"No."

"Then why are you crying?"

"I told you, I'm not." Finns looks away from Stevie, to a stack of papers on the coffee table the Scouser only now notices. There's a bunch of folders with post-it notes sticking out and Finns' e-mail is open on his laptop. Stevie manages to make out the words 'deadline' and 'ASAP'.

"What is this?" he asks. Finns' face becomes immediately pinched, like he's about to start _sobbing_. "What the hell, Finns? What happened?"

His boyfriend takes a shuddering breath. "There was a last minute meeting I wasn't aware of because I left early tonight. They spoke to the client and apparently..." he trails off, swallows down hard, and then continues. "Apparently they changed _everything_. I have to re-write half the contract."

 _Of course_ , Stevie thinks. Of course it would be _work_ to get Stephen completely out of sorts. Trust it on his bosses to make his life miserable. They know how much he wants the promotion and make sure to milk it to the last drop. Someone with Stephen's conditions and degree shouldn't have to submit to that kind of psychological torture for a stupid job.

Stevie considers saying all that, but refrains from doing so when Finns takes a deep breath that turns into half a yawn, half a sob and rubs his eyes with the heels of his fingers. He's desperate _and_ exhausted. The last thing he needs right now is to get scolded - although he really does deserve it sometimes.

Probably not right now, though, considering what his boyfriend got up to the night before.

"They can't do that to you," Stevie says.

"They can. They did. It's done."

"Well, you don't."

"Don't what?"

"Have to accept it. You barely slept last night, Finns. You need to rest. And eat. And generally stay alive. Do you have any idea how hard you're failing at all that right now?"

Finns considers the work waiting for him on the coffee table with a look of utter dejection on his almost glazed-over eyes. It's clear that even keeping his eyelids open is a battle. He looks absolutely _lost_. The tears weren't sadness or anger; it was all helplessness.

"I don't know what I'm doing with my life," he mumbles under his breath, probably thinking out loud. 

"When is this due?" Stevie asks.

"Tomorrow. At nine."

"For fuck's sake, Finns!" Stevie chides him, not quite containing his indignation.

"I didn't decide that," Finns retorts defensively.

"You should've just told them _no_. You know it's impossible to have that finished by tomorrow and, honestly, after all the hours spent working on this stupid contract, you shouldn't fucking have to. Isn't there anyone else at that bloody firm? Why is it all you?"

"You're our most qualified employee and we trust you'll do a fine job, Steve. Your knowledge of corporate law is unparalleled and this is a huge account for us, so the responsibility is tremendous. We wouldn't trust anyone else with this task," Finns recites in a monotone. 

"You're crying again."

"I'm not. This is just... I can't stop," he shrugs, his weary shoulders hunched forward. "I don't know why."

"I do. It's because you're about to drop dead."

Finns opens his mouth to reply, but nothing comes out. He gives up and sighs instead, resigned to his terrible fate.

There's a tiny evil and bitter side of Stevie thinking that Finns deserves to get punished; that's what he gets for trading his entire life for a stupid promotion Stevie isn't even sure still exists. Maybe he'll finally learn his lesson and quit. But then there's the other bigger, less cynical and more commanding side, the part of Stevie that isn't a complete jerk, that just cannot stand to see his boyfriend like this.

In spite of his very strong feelings about Stephen's job or his bosses, Stevie can't sit back and do nothing.

Resigned but not happy, Stevie says, "I'll do it," with the conviction that he'll be regretting his words before the night is over.

Stephen stares at him like he's spoken Greek. "What?"

"I'll do it. You go to bed."

"Are you insane?"

"Really, you think _I'm_ the insane person in the room right now?"

"You can't do my job for me."

"Why not?"

"Because. You can't. You don't even - how are you going to - it's not -"

"Hey," Stevie says, taking his boyfriend's gesticulating hands between his own and pulling them down. "In case you have forgotten, I was way better than you at corporate law and I have the memory of an elephant. Besides, I know your painstaking ass. You probably have everything I'll need already written down, highlighted and commented with colorful post-its." Stephen looks at his folders, all neat and organized. Stevie knows him too well. "I can do it," he reassures the other man, squeezing his hands lightly.

"But this is... Did you hear about the responsibility part? I could lose my job, Stevie." _Not the worst thing that could happen_ , Stevie thinks.

"You can read it over before you go to work and if you think I screwed up, you can tell your boss that your boyfriend wrecked your computer."

"Yeah, because he'll surely believe that."

"I'll wreck your computer for real so you can take it as proof. I'll even go there and beg for forgiveness if you want me to."

Finns considers the thought for a second. "That's... a terrible idea."

"Probably. But it's the best you've got. You know you can't do it. You'll fall asleep in five seconds."

"That's... Actually true," he says, around another yawn. "To be honest I'm only half-listening to you, my brain is... There's a delay." He points a finger to his head, like the words are starting to escape him. Now _that_ truly is the end of the world. Stevie's seen him under appalling states of intoxication and still seeming more clearheaded than this.

"Well, there's your answer, then." Stevie gets up on his feet and pulls Stephen with him. "You go to bed," he says, drawing a line under the conversation.

Stevie kisses his boyfriend on the forehead, turns him around and pushes him gently towards the bedroom. Finns takes his time, but eventually accepts defeat. As soon as he disappears around the corner, Stevie starts inspecting the mess he managed to get himself into.

In a way, this is well deserved for his misbehavior. Still a long way from the punishment he truly deserves to get, mind you. All in all, he'd say this has been a lot easier than he expected. Not that anyone will see him sending thank-you notes to Finns' boss. 

Still, it will definitely be a long night.

x-x-x-x

He's dreaming of red beaches and sandy hair - or was it sandy beaches and red hair? - when something jolts him awake.

"Hey," Finns says, his face just inches away from Stevie's.

"God," Stevie mutters, a bit confused as he rubs his face. "What time is it?"

"Just a little after seven."

"Jesus." Just after seven means he's been asleep for little over an hour, although it feels more like twenty minutes. It doesn't go unnoticed that it was still enough time for him to dream about Xabi Alonso. _Goddamnit._

“You can go back to sleep," Finns says, very softly. "I just woke you up to say you're my hero."

“Do I have to spill coffee on your laptop?”

“Not a single drop," Finns says, smiling from ear to ear. Been a while since Stevie's seen this smile, the really, really, _really_ happy one. Totally unguarded and devoid of any burden. He only then notices that Finns looks much better after a proper night of sleep, albeit a little too pale, like someone just out of a bad cold. Still, it's enough to make his heart warm. "It’s perfect," Finns continues. "I don't know how you did it, but you did it. There are minor changes I need to make, but nothing I can't kill in thirty minutes.”

“Good. But don't get used to it, you know how I feel about your stupid job."

Normally, that sort of remark would get at least an eyeroll from Stephen, potentially a few waspy responses, not a kiss on the temple. That's how thankful he is.

“Thank you," he says, a quick peck on Stevie's lips before standing up and leaving him alone on the couch. "I have to go, but I promise I'll make it up to you. I'm sorry I ruined another date night."

The number of time Stevie's heard those same words in the last few months... At this point, he doesn't even hold Finns up on his promises anymore. It's a one-way ticket to disappointment. 

"Don't overwork yourself too much, Finns," he says, closing his eyes to go back to sleep as his boyfriend walks away. "Despite of what you might think, you're not a freaking machine."

"I make no promises."

"I swear to God, if I have to rush down to a hospital because you fainted in the middle of the street -"

"I will _try_."

"That's not even close to good enough."

"I'll talk to you later, Stevie. Sweet dreams."

Oh, if Finns only knew what he just wished...


	5. You made a vow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is there anybody still there???
> 
> Another delayed chapter. I'm so very sorry! Sometimes real life gets in the way of the nice things. I hope you're still interested in this! Please, for give me for all the typos and English mistakes. Story hasn't been beta'ed! If you leave me a comment, it'll make my day. :)

The pub is still pretty empty when Stevie arrives. The post-work crowd has already left and the late night rush has not yet arrived. And either way, it's not a very big pub, not very popular, which is why it's always been Stevie's favorite. His school friends had other preferences - they liked either the most hyped up or the most exclusive ones (meaning: most expensive), because they were that kind of people. Stevie, he appreciates a place where everybody knows your name - pun intended. 

He takes a spot by the bar - easier to keep the pints coming - and exchanges some banter with Hank, the barman, who he's known for ages now, since he was a difficult teen who just refused to leave at the end of the night. Eventually Hank stopped kicking his scruffy ass out and started talking to him, listening to his rants about his mother and father and everything else in general. 

It's a little depressing that pub alone on a Friday night has become part of Stevie's routine. Granted, it was his choice tonight. Finns called and suggested he could spend the next two nights at Stevie's, which - two nights in a row? That has to be a first in at least four months. Maybe longer. But Stevie declined. Not because he wasn't interested or had anything better to do (as per evidence), but he thinks Finns has more important things on his plate - like sleeping. And eating. Breathing. The sort of thing he's completely abdicated on these days. 

Stevie knows Finns would gladly trade eight hours of sleep for a good, thorough fuck. _Resting_ is the last item on his priorities list, and even though sex has sadly dropped quite a few positions, it still ranks higher than sleeping. But somebody has to be the reasonable person in this relationship and it seems to Stevie like he doesn't have much of a choice here, and not at all because he's any good at playing that role, more like because Finns might end up dead otherwise. If nothing changes on Stephen's plan and he doesn't go running back to the office on a freaking Saturday morning with some _last minute life-or-death situation_ that just _cannot_ wait until Monday (honestly, Stevie sometimes thinks he's sleeping with a freaking firefighter), they'll have plenty of opportunity to work out all the latest batch of resentment through semi-angry sex over the weekend.

It's a good thing Stephen is not a very sentimental person. Some people might've taken Stevie's _suggestion_ like a rejection, gotten pissed off, started an argument and so on. Not Finns, though. He's two parts brain to one part heart, which frankly makes him perfect for the job of Reasonable Part Of The Relationship, except that same cold and analytical eye makes him _extremely_ good at his _actual_ job, which in turn means he loses all sense of rationality when it comes to balancing out career and... Well, everything else.

Still, as he nurses his first pint of the night, Stevie can't help but wonder when did it start getting easy to turn down the chance to spend some time with Finns. He remembers a time when they couldn't keep their hands away from each other - the good days when _sex_ was top of the table for the two of them. It wasn't even that long ago, but it feels like a lifetime. 

It's not that he thinks relationships should always stay the same. You can't be with someone for years and expect things to always be as intense and all-consuming as the early days. All relationships take a violent shove to get you started, and then the energy naturally dwindles until it stabilizes approaching something like a halt. That's when you have to look around and see what you still have. It could be the same, or it could be something different, softer and safer. Or it could be nothing at all.

Maybe that's the point where he and Finns are at right now. The point where you look around. Except Stevie is not really sure he wants to do that. He's afraid of what he'll find. Stevie knows it could never be _nothing_ with Finns. There's always gonna be _something._ But something is not... Everything. It might not be enough.

Stevie worships the ground Finns walks on and that hasn't changed a bit. But, for some time now, he has wondered whether he's being blindsided by his devotion. He's worried that his only concern whenever Finns cancels on him or misses a date or falls asleep when they were supposed to be together is for his boyfriend's health, not for what it says about the state of their relationship. The doubt has settled on the back of his mind like a parasite and refuses to be shaken off.

Going out and cheating on Finns for the first time ever hasn't helped at all, mind you. He was all too aware of what he was doing the entire time to blame it on the booze. And he is not a cheater, not with Finns, not with the only person who's ever had his back, the only one he's ever been able to count on, no matter what. Not with his best friend. So there has to be more to it. It has to mean something. And just the thought of what it could mean... 

It scares the hell out of him.

"Hi." As though on cue, a faintly familiar voice speaks to him, and Stevie's thoughts snap to the present, to a man standing next to him with a smile on his face.

Golden Letters. In flesh and bones and ginger beard. And it's... Surreal. Stevie blinks, then blinks again, almost expecting Xabi to not be there when he opens his eyes again. It's just too much of a coincidence for it to _be_ a coincidence. And he doesn't think he mentioned anything about this pub, or about where he lives - although maybe...

"It's Xabi," the man says, and Stevie realizes he had just been staring with his mouth open and a very dumb look on his face. It's funny that he should suggest Stevie doesn't remember his name because, in fact, Stevie has been thinking about him every other ten minutes or so, speaking his name under his breath every now and again just because he likes the way it rolls off his tongue, foreign and exciting and totally inappropriate. It's funny, except it's not funny at all.

His face flushes in embarrassment. "I know."

"It seemed like you'd forgotten," Xabi says, and then, just for the sake of it, he adds, "Steven". Twisting the knife.

Stevie nods, smiles shortly, and feels stupid. "I didn't," he reasserts.

Xabi stares at him, that same half amused, half something else little smile gracing his ridiculously handsome features. Stevie's memories of the other night did not do justice to how good looking he is. Mercy was dark and messy and they spent half the time sucking face, so yeah. The light is not even that good at the pub, but Stevie can see how angular his jaw is, how dark his eyes are, and the way his sweater isn't really doing a bright job at concealing the muscles underneath it - although maybe that's the point. It fits snugly and stretches across his chest and the V neck shows just a tiny bit of hair there that cause Stevie to wonder what it must feel like to touch it.

And then Stevie _has_ to look away because it's... weird. 

"Are you with someone?" Xabi asks.

Stevie freezes. That was a very straightforward question, wasn't it? But then he notices Xabi's hands are on the empty stool right next to Stevie; he's asking whether he's with someone _at the pub_ , not in general, and that's... Better. 

"No," he replies after a pause that was a little bit too long to seem natural.

"Can I sit?"

Just off the top of his mind, Stevie can come up with at least five good reasons why he should say no. And yet he cannot deny there's a certain level of excitement brewing inside of him. 

"Of course," he says. He ripped the card to pieces and tossed it out the window, and yet here they are again. It would be an amazing story if it wasn't so wrong.

He tries to be sensible about the situation. This isn't a nightclub, no one's shirtless or having sex around them. They _should_ be safe from external influences. The same cannot be said about other, more personal types of forces, as made evident by the jolt that goes up Stevie's body the second their knees touch, only jeans on jeans really, while Xabi adjusts to his stool. It's enough to make Stevie stir in his place, which he tries to cover up by raising his hand and asking Hank for another round.

"You know Hank," Xabi states. "Come here a lot?"

"Are you kidding? I'm a costumer since before it was legal for Hank to sell me alcohol." 

"I don't remember ever seeing you here before."

"Do _you_ come here a lot?"

"Sure," Xabi shrugs. "I live a few blocks away." And that - well. That has the potential to become a problem, Stevie thinks.

"I used to come here a lot when I was younger, before I left for college. Not so often anymore. Thanks, H," Stevie says, as Hank places their pints in front of them.

"Hey, Hank," Xabi says, and Hank opens a broad smile to him. So they really do know each other. Stevie isn't sure how he feels about that.

"Good to see you, Xabi! I didn't know you two were friends." Xabi snorts, sends Stevie a sidelong glance, but doesn't answer. Stevie purses his lips and nods, lets Hank understand that whichever way he wants. 

Hank knows Finns. Stevie's brought him here and introduced his _boyfriend_ to the bartender who made huge tips working as a part-time therapist to a young kid with lots of Mommy and Daddy issues. Hank shared all these old embarrassing stories about Stevie and Finns laughed his ass off and it was nice. But Finns isn't a pub kind of guy and so they have been back here only a handful of times since. Together, anyway. Stevie stops by every now and then. 

There's nothing wrong with having _friends_ , but even calling Xabi that seems weird. Stevie feels a little like a criminal about to get caught in the act.

"Don't buy this one's crap, mate," Hank tells Xabi. "He's full of it."

"Jesus, Hank. Thank you," Stevie groans, but doesn't protest too much lest Hank decides to stick around and share some more in-depth explanations.

"So you're full of crap then," Xabi says, drinking from his glass.

Stevie shakes his head like he's about to disagree, but ends up shruging instead. "That's not entirely wrong, actually."

"Is that why you never called?"

_Bull's eye_.

Stevie doesn't know exactly what he thought would come out of sitting down for a pint with a guy he snogged, promised to call and then never did, but it doesn't stop him getting nervous. Maybe he just expected Xabi to feel just as awkward about it and take a bit longer to mention the fact. Apparently not.

"You're very straightforward."

"Is there anything else to talk about?"

Stevie shrugs. "I don't know. I thought we'd just take turns making questions, keep the conversation going." 

"'Is that why you never called?' is a question," Xabi points out. "But you don't have to answer if you don't want to."

Stevie doesn't think he should, because he made out with this guy less than a week ago and it was _wrong, wrong, wrong_ , so he shouldn't be sitting next to him in a pub, shouldn't be talking to him, shouldn't be letting other people think they're friends. But the way he feels around Xabi, the way Xabi _looks_ at him - it gets him on edge and panicking in the same measure that it attracts him. It's entirely possible that he's just tired, or upset, or everything at once, but the feeling of being around someone who doesn't know him, to whom he's somewhat of a puzzle, someone new and different, is _good_. Xabi looks at him like he needs to be unraveled, with curiosity and interest and - something else which Stevie is trying not to think about right now.

The point is - he rather likes this version of himself, a version that isn't bitter or brooding. Somebody is trying to _get_ him, to really _know_ him, beyond his recent disappointments and upsets. It makes him feel... Whole. Exciting. Flattered, even. Even his name sounds foreign and cool coming from Xabi. _Steben_.

"In my defense," he starts, after another gulp. "I did want to call you."

Xabi looks unimpressed. "Right."

"No, I - I realize how that sounded exactly like a load of crap just now. But it's true. I... stared at your card for long periods of time wondering whether I should call you or not. I wanted to. But."

Xabi is quiet for a spell and then, when Stevie fails to continue, he says, "You end your sentences with _but_?"

Stevie inhales deeply, and then lets it all out at once, " _But_ I'm seeing someone."

"Oh," Xabi says, eyebrows shooting up to this hairline. The surprise on Xabi's face is - well, Stevie doesn't like it. He knows how people generally think about him, the sort of signal he sends out. Steven Gerrard is trustworthy, dependable, sensible. He _looks_ like a good boy, so he _must be_ a good boy. Stevie doesn't understand it, probably never will. He's in no ways a saint or an angel or even particularly well-behaved, he just _looks_ like that type of person. Like the post-college Stephen Finnan type of person, sans the whole maniac workaholic vibes.

Xabi doesn't even look disappointed, only genuinely boggled, but it bothers Stevie to no end. It feels terrible to actually see the exact moment he goes from being a _good boy_ to being a cheater in Xabi's eyes. That's what he is now. It's out in the world; he cannot take it back anymore. Officially a cheater.

He doesn't know why he confessed it. He didn't have to. He could lie to Xabi and make himself look like the perfect prince charming his clear blue eyes make him out to be. But the truth is... Keeping that story to himself has been _suffocating_. Stevie hates lying to Stephen and he hates what he did, _but_ \- he's not sure he's as sorry as he should be, and that just makes it all even worse. He just _had_ to tell someone. And, well. Who better than the person he did all the cheating with, right?

"Like a boyfriend?" Xabi asks.

He nods. "Like a boyfriend."

"So... You cheated on him the other night?" 

"That's... Yeah. I... Yeah."

"Let me guess," Xabi says, taking the glass up to his mouth. "You two had a nasty fight. You went out, got drunk, decided to get revenge. Now you're sorry."

Stevie laughs a hollow laugh. "Oh, I wish you were right, but you're... Not even close. No. We didn't fight. I wasn't that drunk. And it was not about revenge either. The only accurate part is that I _am_ sorry."

Xabi eyes him with curiosity, like he's suddenly more interested. "What's the story, then?"

"Do you really want to know?"

"I haven't got anything better to do."

Stevie watches him studiously, considers the absurdity of this moment - of having a heart to heart about Finns with the person he cheated on Finns with. It's ridiculous. But so liberating it's almost shameful.

"He was working. He's always working," he starts, sounding every bit as bitter as he feels.

"Is he working right now?"

"No. He's at home. His home. Asleep, hopefully," Stevie says, and then, because he feels like he needs to expand on it, "He's been working himself to destruction lately and I told him to go home and get some rest instead of... Well, doing something else. With me. I think he needs rest more than he needs me right now. His priorities are all messed up."

Xabi smiles, but not in a condescending or ironic way; it's almost... Sweet. "It sounds like you care a lot about him," he says.

"I do," Stevie admits, a bittersweet sort of grin tugging at his lips to match the stinging in his chest. "He's... important. Very important." He stops for a second, takes the glass to up his lips and stops just short of drinking. "And now you're probably thinking I'm even more of an asshole because of the other night. Honestly, I don't know what I was thinking."

"Well. I wouldn't say _more_ ," Xabi says, getting another bit of laughter out of Stevie that leaves him feeling rueful and conscience-stricken at how awfully easy (as well as mildly entertaining, if he's being honest) this conversation is.

And in the spirit of full disclosure Stevie adds, in a softer, if slightly sadder, tone, "I had a good time. With you, I mean. The other night. It wasn't just... Well, you know. I guess I needed some company and I found a really good one in you. It just... Got me operating on the wrong frequency. I don't normally do that. I _never_ do that, actually. It was... A one-off, I guess."

Xabi smiles at him with the same brand of wistfulness as Stevie's admission. "Likewise. Although - I'm not seeing anyone in particular, so I'm ok with _operating on the wrong frequency_ , if that's how we're gonna call it."

"Do you think I'm a terrible person?"

"Just a little bit."

"God..." Stevie shakes his head, downing the rest of his pint at once. "I don't even know why I'm telling you all this. It's weird, right?"

"It's unusual," Xabi admits, shrugging. "But I don't think it's weird. I'm glad that you were honest. When you started your little sad tale about how you wanted to call me, I was prepared to call you out on your bullshit."

"Not that it isn't bullshit either way, right?"

Stevie tries to keep level and act like this proximity isn't affecting him in the least, but dear _God_ , the man's beautiful eyes. So dark and deep and _fierce_ at the same time. It's hard to sustain that gaze without feeling like he's giving something away, something secret and horrible that shouldn't be brought to the surface. Stevie moves his focus to something else - to Xabi's lips, which - frankly, it's even worse. All it does is remind Stevie of how soft they are and how prickly that ginger beard felt against his skin, and it's _wrong, wrong, wrong_.

He turns to the bar again, raises his hand and asks for yet another round. At this rate, he'll need to be carried out of the pub by the end of the night.

"Does he know?" Xabi asks.

Stevie nearly gags on his drink. "Are you kidding me?" he says, catching a fillet of beer running down his chin with the back of his hand. "He'd never forgive me."

"And you can't handle not being forgiven," Xabi concludes.

Stevie wants to say, _Exactly_ ; wants to say, _That's the reason I'm sitting here alone all night, mate_ ; wants to say, _Why the fuck do you keep being right about me?_. Instead, he says nothing. He doesn't have to. The truth hurts enough on the inside for him to voice it out and make it worse.

"Ok," Xabi concludes after a long, pregnant pause.

"Ok?" 

"Ok."

"What does that mean?"

"It means ok."

"You're not mad?" 

"Why would I be mad?"

"I don't know. Because I lied?"

"You didn't cheat on _me_ ," Xabi points out. "Besides, I kind of think that sad, guilty face you have on right now is a little endearing."

Stevie snorts, looking down at his own hands to keep from flushing. "I'm glad my misery is amusing to you."

"It's not."

"It's all right. At least _someone_ is amused. I suppose that's better than nothing."

"Don't beat yourself up too much," Xabi says, finishing his own pint and asking Hank for another. "Most men wouldn't give a rat's ass unless they were caught. Not that it excuses you, but at least you have a conscience. Some sense of respect."

"Well, that's... Almost a compliment, I guess," Stevie says, around a short laugh.

"It's the best you'll get."

"Oh, I'll take it. At this point I'll take anything."

Xabi raises his pint on a toast, waits for Stevie to clink their glasses together. "Cheers to that," he says, smiling.

x-x-x-x

There's irony in the fact that he went to the pub to get shit-faced and miserable and beat himself-up inwardly with loneliness and alcohol but ended up having a good time instead.

It's ironic, but also kind of completely fucked up.

He's been meaning to say he should probably go home for about two hours now, but every time he considers doing so Xabi says something that makes him laugh, and then it's his turn to offer something back because this feels a bit like a contest of sorts, and he needs to keep up, needs to make Xabi laugh as well. Making Xabi laugh gives him an inexplicable sense of pride. 

He took it as a personal challenge to crack Xabi's codes, understand his inscrutable expressions and meaningful looks. Every time Xabi lets himself go and throws his head back, or gives Stevie a glimpse at his perfect white teeth, or puts his tongue out in a cheeky, cheeky grin that is just positively pornographic, Stevie gets this fuzzy warmness in the middle of his chest, like this is his purpose, his sole reason. Suddenly, him being at this pub tonight became all about making Xabi Alonso laugh.

_Disastrous_ doesn't quite begin to describe it.

It's Xabi who, after finishing another pint, goes quiet for a moment and says, "It's getting late. I should probably get going."

"Damn", Stevie says, checking his wristwatch to confirm that it is indeed late. "I completely lost track of time."

Xabi smiles warmly at him, but with a hint of bleakness there that says to Stevie that he bemoans his own words, mimicking the thoughts in the Scouser's heads. 

There's a moment of indecision when Stevie offers to pay but Xabi refuses to let him, then Stevie insists but Xabi insists _more_ , until eventually Hank comes out of the kitchen and says it's on the house. They protest a bit but Hank waves them off and leaves them talking to the walls as he disappears to the back of the pub. They agree to leave him a fat tip and that solves the issue.

There's barely anyone else left on the pub, which indicates that Hank has let them stay out of courtesy. He would've probably closed already by now if it wasn't for their enthusiastic exchange by the counter.

It's chilly and quiet outside. At almost two in the morning Liverpool's city center looks a bit like the scenario of a Victorian horror story. The silence, however, is being completely shunned by the sound of Stevie's pulse in his ears. There's a boiling feeling at the pit of his stomach at the thought of him and Xabi alone together, conveniently protected by the cloak of anonymity that the night and the empty street provide. It's tempting. Perhaps a bit too tempting. So Stevie has to put a careful distance between the two of them; not too far, but deliberate nonetheless. It's a necessary precaution.

"You still have my number, right?" Xabi asks after a moment, breaking the ice.

"Uhm..." Stevie starts, eying the other man sheepishly. "Not exactly?"

"Oh?"

"Remember what I said about wanting to call you?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm afraid I kind of would've if I'd kept the card."

Xabi smiles, and it annoys Stevie that he can't tell what it means, but he doesn't seem to be angry or offended, so that's something.

"I guess that means you don't want me to give you a replacement?"

"I..." Stevie starts, stops, choking on what he really wants to say. _Stephen, Stephen, Stephen_ , a little voice begins to chant on the back of his head. 

"It doesn't have to be a bad thing, Steven," Xabi offers. "You seemed like you needed company tonight. A friend. I could be a friend. It doesn't have to be... Something else."

That's exactly what Stevie's been telling himself all night, in fact. Xabi is a bright, shiny contrast to the other part of his life, an enticing counterpoint to Finns. Current Finns, Stevie reminds himself. Finns isn't what he is at the present moment. That's a phase, a chapter. It will go away. It has to go. And if they weren't going through this particular rough patch, if it wasn't for Finns' absence and Stevie's passive compliance, then maybe Xabi wouldn't even be a thing. He wouldn't be attracted to his ginger beard or his dark eyes or his broad shoulders or... He _wouldn't_ be. He _knows_ he wouldn't be.

But Finns is distant, and he isn't helping matters much by going out and cheating on him, and Xabi is right there, short few steps away, offering friendship as though that was easy and decent, not incredibly complicated and totally awful. 

"I'm not sure that's a good idea, Xabi," he says.

"Well," Xabi shrugs, accepting although clearly not agreeing with it. "If you ever change your mind," he says, eyes blinking away from Stevie, to the pub, then back again. _We have this_ , he's saying. _Come and find me_. And that's... Way more dangerous than a little piece of paper. Stevie can't shrug away his favorite pub, can't shrug away Hank, can't just move across town to get Xabi out of his way. They have a _place_ now.

_Stephen, Stephen, Stephen_ , the voice keeps murmuring. 

They shake hands, briefly, and Stevie watches as Xabi walks away, watches until he disappears around the corner, before letting out a deep breath and relaxing his muscles. Only then, with a safe distance between himself and that Spaniard, Stevie turns around and goes home.


	6. Though it's unfair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If anyone out there was wondering if I'm dead, the answer is: no, not yet! And I haven't given up on my fanfictions yet either, just been really slow lately (and also trying to write all of them at once, which doesn't help at all). So in case there's still anyone waiting for an update, here it is! 
> 
> As always, I beg you to forgive all the mistakes and stuff because this story hasn't been beta'ed and I'm not a native English speaker. Your comments and feedbacks are very much welcome and loved and are basically what inspire me to keep writing, so if you have words, any word at all, just drop me a note! And thank you for reading. :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Totally (almost) unrelated: The way I write is non-linear. I go back and forth and sometimes even change stories in the middle of finishing chapters, so my head gets pretty confused at times. I have this weird feeling that I already used one or two of the paragraphs in this chapter in some other chapter. Like, I think I might have written them and then decided to put them in some other part of the story but forgotten about it. I went back and read all the previous chapters and could not find it, but I still can't shake off that feeling! I think it might be because I've read this bit a billion times over and re-wrote the chapter at least three times, so maybe I'm just too familiar with it, I don't know. It's a weird sensation to have.

Not even 8am yet and Stevie can already feel the beginnings of a headache brewing on the back of his skull. Feels like he didn't have more than thirty minutes of uninterrupted sleep all night, barely closed his eyes at all. What a promising way to start the day, he thinks, already fully awake.

Because he is stubborn, he stays in bed for another hour, absolutely still, just staring at the white ceiling above and hoping for the best. His thoughts, however, refuse to shut up. There's a million and one things rushing through his head in the speed of light, way too fast for him to process, but fast enough to leave him drained before he even moves a finger.

When he finally accepts that a nap won't be happening any time soon and staying in bed proves to be unwise, Stevie rolls over, stretching out like a cat, before retrieving his phone from the nightstand.

There's a text from Finns, sent at 5:59am. 

It is a sodding Saturday morning and Stephen was up before the sun. This shouldn't shock him anymore, but it does. Somebody needs to stop that man.

_Call me when you wake up._ Winky face.

Stevie takes a deep breath, shuts his eyes and envisions how the conversation will go. Stephen will say he's been called to the office for an _emergency_ meeting, will be stuck there for the rest of the day, and ' _don't you want to meet up for lunch? I have 20 minutes I can spare in about five hours._ ' 

It's not hard to imagine how that will go because it's happened so many times before. Been there, done that.

Even before he presses the call button, Steven is riled up, ready to yell some expletives and give his boyfriend a piece of his turbulent mind. His patience has been running thin for some time now and Stephen is about to find out he really did not pick a good day to try and stretch it.

The Irishman answers after two rings and Steven launches into his rant before there's even a chance for him to say 'good morning'.

"Up before six on a Saturday? Really?"

“Good morning to you, too.”

“I’d wish you the same, but I guess it’s useless.”

"Wow. Somebody woke up on the wrong side of the bed."

"You think that's healthy?"

"Probably not. You should get a new mattress."

"I'm talking about _you_."

"I'm a morning person, Steven. I wake up early every day," he explains, very calmly - which translates into condescending to Steven's ears. He holds back a grunt.

"Where are you?"

"At a strip club, putting dollar bills in a sweaty hunk's speedo. Do you want me to send you a photo?"

" _Stephen_."

"Where the hell would I be? I went out for a jog, got back, now I'm comfortably settled on my couch, watching the telly - which is terrible, by the way - and having oatmeal. Does that satisfy your curiosity or do you need more details? I could describe what I’m wearing if you like, but I have to warn you it won't be sexy at all."

Stevie considers the information for five seconds - ironic remarks aside - before announcing, "I'm coming over." 

It's not that he doesn't believe Stephen - not exactly - but things tend to change very fast where that man and work are concerned. Somebody should be there to chain him to the furniture before he tries to leave.

"Not on that mood, you're not."

"Be there in twenty."

There's some protest from the other side, but Stevie just hangs up and jumps out of bed to get dressed. There's this weird sense of urgency driving him, leaving him grumpy and anxious and in a terrible hurry. The precise reason isn't clear, something dancing just on the edge of his mind's grasp, where he can sense it but not reach. Almost like a premonition of some sort, like when Stevie wakes up on match days _knowing_ that Liverpool is going to be shite for no obvious reason, that it’s not going to be a good day. It's just a sixth sense telling him to _move_ and get his ass over to Stephen's.

There's a knot in his stomach as he makes it to his car and it forces Stevie to slow down a little, take a deep breath, count to ten, otherwise he'll just go into meltdown. The royal mess that's been dominating his head for the past few days, trumping all over his good judgement, seems to have reached some peak point or other this morning. Stevie is confused as fuck and also maybe scared, although he can't really tell of _what_. 

Stevie does not bother with knocking or ringing the doorbell, just makes full use of his key without giving it a second thought.

Stephen eyes him from the couch, startled by his sudden appearance, a spoonful of oatmeal frozen mid-air on the way to his mouth.

Stevie stops by the door and looks at his boyfriend. Like, really _looks_ at him, in a way he hasn't done in a very, _very_ long time. And Stephen is... Different. Somehow looking thinner still, but also lazy. Not put together at all, which is something that's definitely become a rare occurrence. These days, Stevie either sees him all dressed up in fancy attire or stark naked. It's the two states of Stephen that current exist in his life - Stephen ready to leave or Stephen ready to fuck. No in-between whatsoever.

There's something surprisingly intimate about seeing him like this, Saturday-morning-esque, much more so than undressed. This version of Stephen, this unadorned, old-sweatpants-on, unfixed hair version of him, is the Stephen that no one ever gets to see. Other people have screwed Stephen (maybe still do, who knows); other people see him looking perfect in flattering suits every single day, but _this_ Stephen - this is the one that's always been just his, but that hasn’t been around for a while. 

The sight seems to have come straight from the past, a shot from some deep and loving corner off Stevie's best memories, and it leaves him stunned for a moment, speechless, when it hits him he's completely forgotten how to navigate this kind of intimacy.

Finns looks tired, but wide awake, dark shadows under his big green eyes as he watches Stevie with a mixture of curiosity and disorientation, just waiting for him to do something or say something to justify the grand entrance.

"Where's the fire?" he asks after e lengthy pause that probably looks totally weird from his perspective but that is absolutely necessary from where Stevie stands.

And the reason is that, at that precise moment, Finns looks every bit the man Stevie fell in love with all those years ago. And that fact is the key to the puzzle, what makes Stevie finally understand what the turbulence and the urgency are all about.

The Scouser shuts the door and, with purposeful long strides, crosses the room to join his boyfriend on the couch.

Stephen flinches like he thinks he might get punched, and when he tries to speak, Stevie just cups his face with both his hands and smashes their mouths together in a kiss that is not at all soft or gentle. It's not a 'hello' or a 'good to see you'; it's all hunger and need and a little bit of oatmeal as well. Like this could be their last kiss. Their very last moment together.

Which, Stevie realizes now, it might have been. It almost was. If last night had gone slightly different, if someone had dared to make a move or tilt their head a certain way, if certain words that were definitely crossing their minds had been spoken, things could be going completely different right now. Nothing happened after all, but it was _so close_. In his heart, Stevie knows that.

This is what drove Stevie to Finns this morning: a comprehension of how terribly out of control everything is spinning. He's losing Stephen, and Stephen is losing him, and they're both letting it happen because they're taking this - all of this, their romantic involvement, their friendship, everything they've built together, how far they've come - for granted. 

When he finally pulls away, Finns is staring at him with his eyebrows up to his hairline and a silly smile playing on his lips, like he isn’t sure whether to be alarmed or glad.

"What was that all about?" he asks.

"Nothing," Stevie says, and then, because he realizes that makes no sense at all, he adds, "I miss you."

"If I'd known you felt like _that_ I would've solved that problem sooner. Or maybe I would make you miss me more often, I'm not sure," Stephen says, wiping a little oatmeal from Stevie's cheek with the tip of his finger and then licking it clean. He stops then, his eyes suddenly more analytical, searching Stevie's face for... _something_. The Scouser wants to look away now, but he knows that's exactly the kind of reaction Finns is looking for - the kind that will give him away - so, instead, he keeps his stance and stares back, doing his best to maintain his poise whilst hoping that Finns' ability to read his mind is as rusty as everything else about their relationship. 

"You're mad at me," Stephen concludes after a moment.

"You think?"

"What did I do now?"

Stevie arches an eyebrow at his boyfriend. "Are you serious?"

"What? I asked you to come over last night, didn't I? You're the one who said no, told me to go to bed - _by myself_. If anything, _I_ should be mad at _you_ for turning me down."

"It's not about last night, Stephen."

"Then what?"

"It's -" Stevie stops at the clear sensation of a rant building on the back of his throat, ready to be spilled out coated in resentment, causing yet another fight and ruining yet another weekend. That's a luxury they cannot afford at the moment, not given their current situation - not after what _almost_ happened last night. Stevie came here to _fix_ things, not to break them beyond repair.

He swallows all the bitterness back down, combs his fingers through Stephen's smooth hair, unusually free of hairstyling products, still a bit damp from a recent shower. "Nope," he says. The other man blinks at him, confused. "We're not doing this. We're not fighting today."

"Who said anything about fighting?"

"That's what we were about to start doing, Stephen. I'd say something you wouldn't like, then you'd be ridiculously patronizing, then I'd get pissed, then you'd try to brush it aside like I'm overreacting, then I'd get even more pissed, and before we know it we're both yelling."

"I don't yell," Finns responds, matter-of-factly, which is met with an ungraceful pout from Stevie. Finns rolls his eyes. "Hey, I would not -"

"Yes, you would. But today you won't. Because we're not fighting. Ok?"

Stephen looks at him as though he still has a few reservations about what was just spoken, but, much to Stevie's relief, he eventually sighs in resignation. "Fine. Let's not fight."

Stevie leans over and places a chaste kiss on his boyfriend's lips before saying, "Good."

_That_ is the exact moment when Stevie makes a promise to himself and decides to _try harder_.

It's an important decision, not to be underrated. Might seem like a random, meaningless thing at first glance, but in Stevie's heart he _knows_ this is a turning point, and a major one at that.

If he simply takes a step back and allows Finns to continue to steer things whichever way he sees fit, at the rate they're at right now Stevie would say they won't last for another thirty days. Theirs is the story of a beautiful, loving relationship that suffered a tragic hammering and has been barely hanging on to dear life. It might last for a while longer, flecked with few hopeful moments here and there, but it will perish eventually.

Finns - he's been way out of his depth for a while now. Long enough for Stevie to understand that he will not snap out of it on his own, as Stevie had been hoping for almost a year. He needs help, someone to hold his hand, tell him to shut the fuck up when he inevitably starts complaining and pull him out of this travesty of a life he's been living - against his will if needed be. Some people are addicted to drugs, some people are addicted to alcohol - Stephen is addicted to his bloody work. If it was cocaine or margaritas it would be easier; at least the problem would be obvious, Stephen wouldn't be able to laugh him off, say he's _overreacting_ as he has done so many times. There are brochures and rehabilitation centers and basement meetings and freaking _steps_ for people who are addicted to alcohol and drugs. But what is there to say when Finns rebuffs his complaints with _"Who gets addicted to work, Steven? That's nonsense"_? It does sound nonsensical - which just makes the situation even more absurd.

That means to say that if anyone is going to stop the imminent trainwreck from happening, it necessarily has to be Stevie. Not because he's the obvious best choice, but because he's kind of the only one available. Stevie's not used to holding so much responsibility in his hands when it comes to another human being - not personally, anyway. He's constantly in control of people's lives at work, the fates of entire hopeless families in his hands. But it's different - it's _professional_. Not that he doesn't get involved or doesn't care, but usually the law handles everything, Stevie is just an instrument. There's always some line to bend or a top firm to convince to take an impossible case or a judge willing to do their yearly good deed and keep a family from losing the roof above their heads. There's always a _way out_. Personal relationships, however - that's an entirely different beast. Nothing is ever as straightforward.

He could, of course, just sit back and watch, do nothing and blame it all on Finns when doom finally arrives. And it won't even be unfair or necessarily wrong. But it will be very hypocritical and also deliberate. _Not_ doing anything _is_ doing something at this point; it's knowing the ship is sinking and deciding to pull out a chair, sit on the deck and go down with it instead of trying to save himself. 

The question is: is that really what he wants? Is he really so sick and tired that he can't muster the energy to move a single finger to rescue their relationship? And, perhaps more importantly, has he done enough to consider himself absolutely blameless? Has he done _anything_ at all?

The honest answer is probably no.

The truth is Stevie owes it to Stephen to put up a good and honest fight. And that's exactly what he will do.

x-x-x-x-x

Perhaps for the first time in history, the internet proves not to be very helpful. Stevie spends some time researching and reading all sorts of articles, book samples and listening to podcasts on _How To Save Your Relationship_. Granted, a lot of it was about marriages and kids and that sort of thing, which doesn’t exactly apply, but the principle remains the same. 

Clearly the people writing these things have never been introduced to Stephen Finnan if they think _romance_ is the key to success. Either that or he got himself a boyfriend that is much harder to entertain and impress than the average person (which might be the case, actually). If he dares to prepare a candle-lit dinner, spread rose petals all over the bed or write about his _true feelings_ on a card, Stephen would either outright laugh at his face or simply walk out, disgusted. He's skeptical to the last hair strand on his head, that man. Excel spreadsheets move him more than love declarations - which Steven isn't entirely opposed to, but he's learned to hold back on his tendency towards corny gestures for the sake of his boyfriend.

The lack of source material to serve as guidance makes his life a ton more complicated. Stevie is pretty sure he's not well enough equipped to navigate the situation on his own. He considers visiting a therapist or something like that, but decides against it because Finns would never agree to it, the mere suggestion might offend him. This all combines to make the first step on his new resolution all the harder: Stevie stops showing up at Hank's altogether, thus basically crossing out the one person who could offer him valuable advice. Hank had been his safe house since he was 15, kept him more or less sane in other times when the prognosis wasn't looking too bright. Stevie kind of feels very much in necessity of a safe house right about now. The problem is his refuge has been breached by the one thing he needs to make sure will be as far away from him as possible. And in any case, that's what _trying harder_ means, right? Making sacrifices, compromising, doing things he's not entirely happy with but that are absolutely necessary - like Finns when he abandoned his beautiful London flat and fancy job to move to Liverpool. Stevie repeats that in his head a lot, like a mantra, particularly whenever he feels like stealing a glance through the pub window when he walks by. _Walk on, walk on_. 

The second change Stevie implements is of a more personal nature: he becomes _persistent_ , insufferably so at times. He hates being that person, but it's the only thing Stephen seems to respond to - emotional blackmail. It's a last resort, but they do go there more often than it would probably be healthy for any relationship. Playing dirty and guiltying Stephen into doing what he wants is his only weapon when appealing to reason doesn't work. That's what happens when you're dating a man whose sense of duty towards his job is almost military.

Every-fucking-thing is a slow-cooked negotiation with Stephen that demands more from Stevie's patience than most of his cases at work. He has to raise the bar with his newly acquired determination in order to stand his ground, but his efforts eventually start paying off. Small at first, like getting Finns to have lunch with him more than once a week. Is it annoying that his phone keeps beeping every five seconds? Sure. But it's a reasonable price to pay for holding Finns' attention for an entire hour every two or three days. At least he's there. At least he's talking. At least he's _eating_ , which Stevie strongly suspects was scratched from Finns' top priorities a long time ago, if his weight loss is anything to go by.

Things finally take a turn for the better when Finns agrees to spend an entire Saturday with him - no cell phones, no computers, no slipping out in the middle of the night. From Friday night dinner to Sunday breakfast, Finns is completely his. And it is _great_.

It'd been so long since they last had a moment to just do absolutely nothing together that Stevie forgot how brilliant it is. Back when Finns first moved to Liverpool, before he found his own place, when he was still scouting the internet and making phone calls for a job, they used to do this all the time. Stevie's flexible work hours and free weekends meant they'd roll around in bed until noon almost every day - well, he would, anyway. Stephen usually woke up at seven, went out for a jog, came back, had a shower, made coffee and then rejoined Stevie back in bed, where they'd stay until it was absolutely mandatory that he got up. And it wasn't even that they were humping all the time - which, ok, they kind of were, but not _that_ much; they'd sometimes lie down next to each other and just talk, for hours, about everything and nothing at all. That kind of comfort came so naturally to them that it was easy to take it from granted.

Stevie used to push Finns to get out more often, see the city, spend some time at the pub with Hank or just chatting to random people. He'd drag Finns out to Mercy every chance he had. Finns was never a fan - he doesn't like crowded places, says the noise annoys him. He'd always vote for the lazy days in, but he wasn't as intransigent as he is nowadays back then, never turned it into a power struggle. He was ok with doing what Stevie wanted, as long as they were both having fun. Finns is a good dancer when he feels like it and, in spite of his constant complaints about the people bumping into him all the time and the _crappy queen song_ , Mercy worked like magic to get him back on his best old college days mood.

Now, whenever Stevie thinks of what he misses the most about Finns, it's never the sex-powered Mercy nights he so insisted on or playing darts at the pub with the lads; it's the lazy days spent indoors, doing nothing but laughing like idiots and watching bad television.

One thing Stevie came to learn about Finns in all those years together is that outdoors Finns is not the same person as indoors Finns. Stephen sends out all these cold bitch vibes, and it used to be incredibly sexy when they were students, but it has morphed into something like danger now that he's a proper grown up. Before, it was a come-hither and catch-me-if-you-can kind of charm; now it just makes him seem serious and unattainable. He's still attractive, but it definitely stirs people away, afraid they might get scorched if they come too close. And it's not just about potential suitors; it's _everyone_. Friends, co-workers, street vendors. Even the boyfriend, if they're being honest about it (Finns would deny it; he'd be lying). Stephen has become this beautiful thing to be admired only from afar.

But that person is not the Stephen he knows. His Finns makes goofy jokes and enjoys watching chick-flick movies even though it's clearly not his thing because he always gets opinionated and judges every single decision the main characters makes to then offer his own version of how the story should go (spoiler alert: there's never any actual romance in Finns' versions of romantic movies). His Finns cannot eat powdered donuts or ice cream cones without looking like a total slob if his life hangs on it and has a real hard time with roman numbers (Stevie once spent thousands of pounds on a fancy wristwatch just to make Finns feel bad if he wasn't wearing it and almost made him throw the thing in the river Mersey asking the time every five minutes when he got drunk one night). His Finns hums pop songs when he's showering and thinks no one's listening even though he claims to hate all of them, has read the Harry Potter books dozens of times (and has a serious crush on the Weasley twins which had him going home with two completely unrelated ginger guys one night in college just to satisfy his craving - Stevie obviously teases him about it whenever the opportunity arises. _"That's sick, Stephen, it's a children's book"_ ) and turns into the biggest dork around cocker spaniels because he had two as a kid (named by him as Fluffy and Cinder, which are possibly the least Finns-like names in the history of ever; you'd think he'd name his dogs something snob like Gustav and Mathilde or Cabernet and Sauvignon).

His Finns it not the same Finns everyone else gets, and Stevie feels special for that. Feels _proud_. And this is what he missed the most - _his_ Finns, the one he gets when it's just the two of them, behind closed doors, away from witnesses. The problem is... That Finns is slowly starting to disappear.

Stevie is very much aware that he's the only person nowadays with whom Finns ever gets this comfortable around. He doesn't have any other good friends or even relatives in Liverpool. That dumps the responsibility of making sure Finns doesn't forget how to be himself solely on Stevie's head. And the thing is, for the past year, he wasn't around that much. If it was because he was negligent or because Stephen turned into a freaking robot is irrelevant; what matters is that his Finns, the one he loves and cherishes and got to know so well as his best friend and then more, doesn't come out of his shell so easy anymore. He got into Super Lawyer Mode and he stays like that even when they're together, alone. It takes a bit of persistence, a bit of prodding for him to let go - and, for long, dark months, it just felt like way too much work, so Stevie just stopped. And it was a mistake. A huge one. Stevie sometimes feels like he's the only thing keeping that side of Stephen alive and breathing, wonders what will happen if he leaves one day, if he gets fed up and decides to walk out... That Stephen might just die for good. 

He'd hate himself for letting that happen. About as much as he hates himself for still thinking about Xabi.

The Spaniard becomes this recurrent thought - it crosses his mind almost every day, sometimes flittingly, sometimes not. But it's there, gnawing at the back of his mind. It might be a self-punishment mechanism his head came up with on its own, because whenever he does think of Xabi, it immediately ignites the guilt floods and Stevie feels terrible, which in turn prompts his focus to go back to Finns, only Finns, all for Finns. The thoughts become stronger when they're having a particularly bad day - and also harder to brush off. Stevie dares to wonder what it would've been like if he hadn't sent Xabi away that night after the pub, if he'd invited the other man up to his flat for another drink; imagines the two of them opening a bottle of wine, sitting down on his couch, that awkward moment of silence when their eyes meet full of ill-concealed intentions... And that's usually as far as he'll let himself go. After that it becomes way too dangerous territory to trudge.

Things get easier for some time when he and Finns sort of reach a level of understanding. They never actually talk about it, but some things just don't need to be said. Not between the two of them. Or so Stevie thought, anyway, because their moment of bliss doesn't last for too long.

It starts when Stephen claims there's a new case he's working on - a major one, possibly decisive in his quest for promotion, according to no one but his own manic head - and starts bailing on him again. He gets late for lunch and dinner and movies - twenty minutes, an hour, two hours, until eventually he doesn't show up at all. Stevie goes home alone eating cold popcorn or informs the maître it'll be dinner for one more times than he cares to count. For each night they get to spend together it's two others he lies down with frustration as his sole company.

There’s no novelty in this pattern of behavior; Stevie's seen it all before. It's how it began, over a year before, it's how things got to its current dire state. And he's complained, of course, but it feels so much worse now. Probably because he didn't take notice the first time, or simply because he wasn't as invested. He's trying now, hard. Whereas before he’d to feel mildly annoyed and upset, now he's straight out pissed off, short-tempered. And he doesn't hold it back either, just lets the worst of him come out; Stevie gets snappy and waspy, sends rude messages to Finns and deliberately leaves him hanging without a follow-up for hours (or days, depending on how angry he gets), just out of spite. 

One night, when he's sitting alone and eating cold pizza in front of the TV in his flat when he was meant to be over at Finns' having sex, he writes _Ur gonna miss me when i'm shagging some hot foreigner while ur stuck at the office_ and only _almost_ wants to take it back the second he hits send. Almost, because Finns' reply comes a moment later and it's _:(_ and for God's fucking sake. He basically tells his boyfriend he's about to get seriously cheated on and the reply is a bloody emoji? Stevie should just consider him warned and to hell with it. Fuck, he _deserves_ to get cheated after that. 

Maybe Stephen would take it more seriously if he knew how Stevie's brain gets working on all these crazy possibilities involving Xabi, stronger each time he gets blown off. And Finns isn't _freaking doing anything to stop it_. He can feel himself edging dangerously close to doing something idiot, slipping through Finns' negligent stupid fingers.

So maybe snogging some guy at a club wasn't fair. But _come on_. How is _this_ fair?

**Author's Note:**

> The title was taken from _First_ , by _Cold War Kids_.


End file.
